Tarty - a British word relating to, or suggestive of, a prostitute. (ie. Slutty)
It had been a long day and the last thing I needed was to be sat in the back of a rusty black cab racing through the back streets of Glasgow making small talk with the driver. Nevertheless, that was where I found myself at 5pm on a Wednesday evening.
It was hard to believe that I'd woken up that morning wrapped in the arms of my lover, in his cosy double bed in Paris. The day had started wonderfully for that very reason, but by the time I had arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport I was disheveled and stressed out to the max (have you seen how freakin' huge that place is?!). I kissed FP on the lips and raced away through security to catch my flight to Glasgow.
The last one to board the plane was, unsurprisingly, me. I squeezed myself into the seat between two strangers, one of which coughed and spluttered all over me, and switched on my ipod. Loud.
At the other end I got lost. Despite having been promised that my mum would be there to pick me up, she was nowhere to be seen. A meeting at work had held her up and I'd have to make my own way home. I hopped on a bus with the words 'City Centre' printed in fluorescent pink lettering on the side and hoped for the best.
A good 45 minutes later I arrived at Glasgow Bus Station where I decided I'd had enough of buses and of fat people sitting next to me, forcing me to plaster my face against the window. I went straight to the taxi rank where an old man dressed in slightly odd two-tone clothing that reminded me of a) a jester and b) Heather Mills' suit.
Please don't talk to me, taxi driver. I silently begged. Just let me relax a little and get me home.
But I should be so lucky. The man wanted to know everything about me. He wanted to know where I'd been, where I was going, how did I get there, why was I moving to France, why not stay in Scotland, what's wrong with Glasgow (his tone was a little defensive by this point), where were my parents from, did they mind me leaving the country, did I have a boyfriend, was he French, what was wrong with Glaswegian men (again, the tone was a little defensive) until finally he appeared to run out of questions.
He looked in his rear view mirror at me.
"Do you ever wear tarty clothes?" He said in a completely nonchalant way. I studied his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. I looked down at my clothes. Leaning forward I asked the driver to repeat himself.
"Do you ever wear tarty clothes?" He said again. Was this crazy old fool hitting on me or what?! How dare he! At his age? What a minger!
"Tarty?!" I exclaimed loudly, "Excuse me, mister, but are you kiddi-"
"No!" he shook his head from side to side vigorously, "not tarty, I said tartan!"
On my To Do List before I leave for France; get my hearing tested.